The corpse of the decayed fell like a marionette with its strings cut. The man who’d done the deed lowered his hands to double check that his plague mask was firmly on before approaching the body.

  “It fell just as easily as the rest did,” he said to another masked man who seemed to melt out of the forest greenery.

  “Individually, they’re quite weak. I’d relate them to flesh constructs or corpse walkers, if their magic wasn’t so strange,” the newcomer mused.

  “Do you think they’re a related monster?”

  “Doubtful. This magic is unlike anything I’ve ever seen or read about.”

  “Then how do we stop them?”

  It was a daunting task, given to them by the Evergreen Druids themselves. The cowardly priestesses refused to set foot in the forests so far south, not only because of the strange decay that ate its way through the forest, but also because the region was so recently afflicted by a level drain. They couldn’t risk their own power, so they hired more expendable resources instead. Though neither brother particularly enjoyed being considered expendable, the pay they received was enough to justify temporarily closing their clinic to investigate the deadly curse that threatened their home.

  The younger brother who’d slain the monster knelt by the corpse. He examined it with his magic, letting tendrils of life and death reach down into the body in an attempt to discern the cause. As far as their research had shown, monsters, humans, and elves were all susceptible to becoming decayed like the corpse beneath him. They’d found decayed trolls, harpies, dire wolves, gnarltooths, drakes, and even a decayed caitkin, but decayed elves and humans were becoming more common the further south the brothers searched. It seemed the human settlements in Kyelnor were being swept up in the destruction.

  The younger brother dreaded the day they’d come across a village devastated by the monsters. They’d find no corpses, of that he was certain, but the knowledge of what happened to them would only give him nightmares to think about.

  These creatures didn’t just eat the bodies of the fallen. They devoured their magic, right down to their very soul.

  The older brother sighed and took off his mask to run his fingers through auburn hair. “We know it doesn’t spread by air. There’s no point in the masks.”

  “I think I’ll leave mine on anyway.”

  “What, are you scared? Or are you jealous of my hair again,” his brother teased. “That’s your human side showing through.”

  The younger brother scowled, not that it was visible beneath his mask. His hair was white, like their mother’s, which did nothing to dissuade the traditional necromancer aesthetic and reputation. People weren’t as guarded around the older brother, probably due to his more natural charisma, a trait inherited from their father. That, however, didn’t stop the younger brother from imagining the world where he had warm-colored hair and could achieve a positive bedside manner without trying so hard.

  He nudged his brother’s leg playfully while maintaining his spell. “Maybe I’d rather smell the flowers in the mask than the rotting corpse beneath me.”

  “And there’s the elf in you.”

  The younger brother bit his lip inside his mask, but even that wasn’t enough to stop the giggles from spilling out. There weren’t many half-elves in Evergreen, and it had long become a running joke between the two regarding their unusual heritage.

  “At least my human side doesn’t insist on a ridiculous hat.”

  “Father said it was all the rage in Kyelnor,” the older brother protested, tipping the brim of his hat.

  “Right, if you believe him about fashion then-” the younger brother trailed off, his attention caught by his spell and the corpse beneath him. “Vesiel, look at this.” He pointed to a portion of his magic near the monster’s chest where the color had shifted red and splotchy.

  Vesiel knelt, adding his own magic to the diagnostic spell. “This one’s fresher than any of the others we’ve seen.”

  “Look at his soul. Doesn’t it look…frayed? Around the edges?”

  “Looks a lot like Gran’s old lace, honestly.”

  “Any idea what it means?”

  The older brother sat back on his heels, pondering their newest bit of information. The truth was that he didn’t know, which was thrilling in its own way. Investigations made up a large part of healing, and it was his favorite part by far. He suspected he got that from his father. Adventurers never could leave the unknown to rest.

  “We should investigate further in,” he finally said. “If we can find more that have been recently turned, maybe we can figure out more about what’s actually afflicting them, or maybe even discover the method of transmission.”

  “The Lady of the Woods warned against going too far in,” the younger brother reminded him.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Vesiel shook his head. “What does she expect us to do, go around ringing a bell and shouting ‘bring out your dead!’ to all the very rational and cooperative corpses that are eating every living thing in sight?” A glare from his brother forced a sigh of defeat from him. “Fine, fine. The goddess is always right. We won’t go too far.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anything for you, Zaryk.”

  The two brothers stood and dusted off their robes. The cure wouldn’t find itself.

  Carefully, they continued into the woods, ever aware that they, too, might become victims at any moment.

  The flames flickered in gleaming braziers within the throne room of Maven, the God Queen of the East, but the throne itself was empty. Its usual occupant paced, her raven hair falling around her shoulders in curled ringlets that always held perfect shape no matter how many times the owner pulled, tugged, or ran her hands through them. Such was one of the benefits of divinity. Drinking of the wellspring made one an all-powerful immortal, but it also gave perfect hair.

  Then again, Maven wasn’t entirely sure if that was something the wellspring offered, or if it was just something she’d picked up after ascending to godhood. Had the Gambler, the rat god of luck and chance, or the hateful Gylgaran, the shadow god of the southern marshlands, been in her position, she doubted very much that they’d be as well put together as she was. However, they were both monster gods, and thus, beneath her. She rarely saw the other gods outside of formal gatherings where every one of them except the Twin Dreamers were dressed in their best. For those two, Maven couldn’t see either of them stressing hard enough over anything to ruin their hair. Maybe it really was a trait unique to her, after all…

  She would have to be thankful for it, for if ever there was a time to be stressed, this was it. The anchor in her care was fluctuating wildly and had been for months. Vile magic, the likes of which the world had been free of for over seven centuries, was now leaking out once more. If it continued, the apocalypse would be upon them once more.

  Maven didn’t know what face it would wear after all this time, but she did know where it would probably strike. First, the monsters would be corrupted. They’d become Apocalypse class monsters, those terrible beings driven only by the desire to destroy everything civilization had ever built. Once a monster became twisted by apocalyptic magics, there was no going back. They would tear down villages, towns, cities, and even whole kingdoms until they were stopped.

  Yet, so much of the situation was beyond her. She guarded only one anchor, and she didn’t even know how many there were, let alone where they were. Gods more ancient than her had put them in place when she was fresh from the wellspring. She didn’t know if any of the gods knew the full extent of the anchors that kept the great seal in place.

  Perhaps…perhaps the others would know.

  Maven snapped her fingers, letting the flames consume her and carry her to the tower she used as a bedroom. She laid down on the bed and closed her eyes, seeking out the power of the Dreamers.

  They appeared to her almost instantly. The twin gods lounged together, the brother holding his sister in his arms as they both read a book, wrapped in a starry blanket.

  “Maven. It’s been a while since you’ve called on us,” said the brother.

  “It’s been a while since she’s slept at all. Look at the rings under her eyes,” his sister quipped back.

  If Maven was honest with herself, she could never remember which twin was which. Despite the fact that they were hardly identical, they’d also been known to swap their forms at will, especially within the dreams of others.

  “The anchors are failing. Do you know anything about it?” she asked succinctly. No point in beating around the bush when such disaster was on the horizon.

  Neither twin even bothered looking at her, but at least the sister spoke. “Wow, not even a ‘hello Stellaria and Lumin, how are you?’ or a ‘it’s been a while, how’s the weather in the dream realm.’”

  Maven rolled her eyes. “We don’t have time for this.”

  “Anchors failing, hmmm?” The brother, Lumin—presuming they were in their usual bodies—rubbed his chin. “I suppose that would be rather problematic, unfortunately, we are quite preoccupied at the moment.”

  “Doing what?! Reading a book?” Maven couldn’t believe her ears. How could they be preoccupied with something more important than this?

  Stellaria rolled her eyes. “Come now, Maven. I know you have a hard time relating, but some of us are both literate and busy.”

  Flames burst to life in the room around them as Maven’s legendary temper raged. Neither of the twins seemed to care, if they even noticed at all.

  “How could anything be more important than this!?”

  “Believe it or not, we have our own responsibilities,” Lumin explained calmly. “We have to observe the convergence of our plans in the North.”

  “The North can wait!”

  “You tell that to the Great Dragon,” Stellaria said, turning the page of their book.

  “I was still reading that.” Her brother turned the page back.

  “Read faster, then.”

  The book burst into flames, but neither of the Twin gods seemed startled by it. Instead, they wrapped tighter into their cozy blanket and glared at their guest.

  “Maven, it’s concerning, yes.” Lumin’s voice was stern, sending a soft chill through Maven’s bones. “However, yours is not the only problem in the world.”

  Stellaria picked up the thought before Maven could interject. “If you cannot handle this on your own or with the help of your fellow human deities, then we recommend reaching out to Kaliana.”

  “Or heavens forbid-”

  “Bury the hatchet-”

  “With Gylgaran-”

  “and the rest of the monster gods,” they finally finished in unison.

  Maven narrowed her eyes. She was by no means a young deity, having gained her throne over two thousand years ago. Gylgaran, the shadow, beat her by a mere century, and Kaliana trailed behind by nearly five hundred years. However, the Dreamers were, without question, their superiors in every way. No one knew how old the twins really were, just as no one knew how old the Great Dragon was. It was widely accepted that they’d been around since the dawn of time, alongside the goddess who created the anchors in the first place.

  The flames died as she caught a hold of her temper. It would not intimidate the Dreamers the way it would Kaliana or any of her subordinates.

  “Very well,” she finally growled, as if the words physically pained her. “Forgive me for my outburst. I can see that the Dragon keeps you very busy.”

  “Very busy indeed,” Stellaria mused.

  Her brother nodded in agreement. “Dragons, demons, creatures of the night. You should stop by sometime.”

  “It’s quite the drama.”

  Maven fought the urge to roll her eyes. Whatever “drama” they were playing at wouldn’t matter if the world drowned in fel magic. Yet, there was nothing she could do to change their minds. With a curt bow, she woke from the dream and flashed back to her throne room.

  “Call up the Saints!” she shouted to her herald. “This threat will take hold of the monstrous communities first. Gather them and give them the choice; they can assimilate or they will die.”