Alyra stepped outside the crypt, determined to follow Markus. Sierelith was right on her heels.

  The moment they crossed the threshold, the rain-soaked humidity of the jungle outside hit her like a wall.

  They moved quickly, but with caution. Markus kept glancing toward the jungle, now strangely silent. Only a few hundred meters separated them from the cluster of buildings ahead.

  Alyra held her breath for most of the way, eyes fixed on the broad back of the stranger who had just saved her life. She still had no idea who he was. His arms were thick as tree trunks, covered in coarse black hair, and a long scar ran from his temple down his cheek, cutting through a scruffy gray beard. Features that should’ve looked threatening.

  And yet… something about him felt safe. Instinctively trustworthy.

  They reached a squat building made mostly of dark stone, its roof patched with rusted metal sheets and scorched timber. Thick black soot stained the walls near the chimney, and the faint stench of iron and smoke still clung to the air, despite the rain.

  A forge.

  Markus stopped at the door. With his heavy hammer, he knocked three quick times, paused, then knocked three more.

  They crouched behind him in silence.

  After a moment, footsteps echoed from inside, slow and heavy, followed by the dragging sound of wood against stone. A dull scrape that went on for several seconds. Then the noise stopped, and Markus gently pushed the heavy door inward.

  Alyra and Sierelith exchanged a glance. Alyra shrugged and stepped inside, the mage close behind her.

  As soon as they were inside, Markus set down his heavy blacksmith hammer and kicked the door shut with a loud bang.

  Dry, oppressive air crept down Alyra’s throat, thick with the stench of molten iron and ash.

  Every breath stung her nose.

  She flinched.

  Without a word, the big man grabbed a massive wooden beam—something only someone of his size could even lift—and laid it across the entrance, sealing it shut.

  Her heart skipped a beat. There was no way she could move that beam on her own fast enough to escape. The rest of the room, built from rough, soot-stained stone, had no other exits.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears. The walls were lined with metal tools: hammers, tongs, pincers, forging wrenches, some rusted, others gleaming.

  A few lay scattered on the floor, stained with blood and some squishy, unidentifiable gunk she really didn’t want to think about.

  A group of kids huddled in one corner of the forge, staring at her with wide, soot-smeared eyes. The whites of their eyes stood out sharply against their grimy faces. They looked terrified. One wore a filthy bandage over one eye; another clutched his arm like it was broken. It had to be them—working together—who’d pushed the beam aside when Markus knocked. There was no way anyone else could’ve opened that door.

  Where the hell had she ended up? She didn’t know a thing about this man. Was he crazy? Saving them? Locking them in to use them as bait?

  Sierelith had been right. She should’ve listened. And now they were trapped. How could she have been so stupid?

  Alyra swallowed hard and took a step back, straight into Sierelith.

  “Hey kid, watch where you’re stepping,” the spy grumbled.

  Alyra ignored her. Her eyes were on Markus, trying to predict his next move.

  The big man bent down to pick up a few tools, stained with blood and other unidentifiable gunk, and neatly placed them back against the wall.

  Alyra scanned the room. There was no way out. Fighting was the only option. But she wasn’t going to win barehanded against a brute like that.

  Maybe if she could just grab one of those tools...

  A flash of little Aurelia’s broken body came unbidden into her mind, shattered by the same man who had just trapped her in here with him.

  A chill ran down her spine.

  Rain pounded the metal and stone roof above them, muffled, but relentless. A distant thunderclap rattled the structure. The brazier in the center of the room crackled softly.

  Markus reached for the hammer and slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

  Alyra’s training at the Novice School kicked in. Instinct took over, she raised her fists and dropped into a fighting stance.

  Markus blinked, surprised. He lifted a hand. “Whoa, hey, kid. What’s your problem?”

  She glanced around for a weapon. There, a long metal pair of tongs. Thin, but long enough. Didn’t look too heavy. She could maybe swing that.

  Markus slowly lowered the hammer from his shoulder, one hand still raised. He leaned it gently against the wall. “Easy, now. I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? Look, I’m putting the hammer down. See?” He stepped back.

  Something smacked the back of Alyra’s head.

  She spun, ready to strike, and found Sierelith glaring at her.

  “Will you calm down already?” the mage snapped. “Or do you want to take a swing at me too?”

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  Alyra frowned. What the hell was that lunatic doing? Why smack her now? She turned back, ready to defend herself.

  Markus was staring at her, massive arms crossed. “Your friend’s right, kid. You need to calm down. You’re safe in here.”

  She didn’t reply. Something about him made her want to trust him… but her body wouldn’t cooperate. Maybe it was the training kicking in.

  Or maybe she was just too scared to stop being scared.

  The big guy shook his head and walked over to the kids.

  He knelt beside the smallest one and checked the boy’s eye bandage. Adjusted it gently, then ruffled his hair.

  “There you go,” he murmured. “Much better. Keep it tight like that ‘til we find someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

  The kid nodded.

  Markus moved on to the second boy’s arm. His massive hands were surprisingly gentle. The boy winced but didn’t cry.

  Alyra stood there, mouth slightly open. He wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. He was taking care of the kids.

  And now… of them too.

  She glanced down. Her fists were still up, clenched tight, ready to strike.

  She felt a little ridiculous. With a shaky exhale, she lowered her hands.

  Markus turned back to her. “Sorry. I showed up out of nowhere with this big-ass hammer, smashed the little undead girl, dragged you in here in a rush, then sealed the door behind us. I get why you might be on edge. But I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  He scratched the back of his head. “What are your names?”

  “I’m Sierelith,” said the illusion mage, arms crossed. “And I wasn’t scared. I just don’t trust you. The only one freaking out here is her.” She jerked her chin toward Alyra.

  Markus looked over.

  Alyra blushed and gave an awkward smile. “I’m Alyra. A novice of Orbisar.”

  The big man nodded slowly, sizing them up. “So, you’re from Rothmere, huh? What brings you all the way out here? Thought they knew better than to mess around in Ebonshade.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You girls run away from home or something?”

  Alyra opened her mouth to explain about the kidnapping, but Sierelith cut her off.

  “Yup. Nailed it,” the mage said. “Now do us a favor and tell us what’s actually going on here. We know about the Life sphere that crashed nearby, but what we’ve seen goes way beyond the usual mess from a low-grade one. So tell us, what happened to your priest? Elias, wasn’t it?”

  Markus clenched his jaw. The long scar on his face twitched, like a coiled serpent ready to strike.

  Maybe Alyra had been staring too long, because Markus caught her gaze and gently laid a hand over the scar.

  “It was a demon’s claw,” he murmured.

  Sierelith raised an eyebrow. “A demon? In Ebonshade? That’s a bit of a stretch…”

  Markus shook his head. “I haven’t always lived here. I used to work for the Sacred Guard, blacksmith duties in different cities. Last post was in Rothmere. Fixed weapons, armor, shields... whatever they threw at me. Sometimes, I even had to fight.” He scratched his scar, wincing. “More often than I wanted. So I figured I’d had enough. Came here hoping for a quiet life.”

  Sierelith yawned. “What a touching story. And the kids?” She nodded toward the group huddled in the corner of the forge. “Emergency rations?”

  Markus frowned. “No… what? Are you serious? Hah... you’ve got jokes. They’re my apprentices. They were with me when... well, when everything went to hell.”

  Sierelith gave the kids a slow once-over. “Not exactly blacksmith material.”

  Alyra stepped forward. “Have you figured out what actually happened here?”

  Markus shook his head. “All I know is that a few days before everything went to hell, there was some big commotion in front of the temple. Elias was arguing with some of the villagers.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I mind my own business. Don’t get involved in religious stuff.”

  The boy holding his arm chimed in. “It was the cult. Elias was fighting with the Cult of the Dead. They were real mad.”

  Sierelith narrowed her eyes. “Any idea why?”

  The boy shrugged. “Elias has been mad at the Cult people for a while. He always calls them blasphemers and stuff. But this time… I dunno, something must’ve happened. He was really, really angry. Like, way more than usual. But I don’t know why.”

  Alyra turned back to Markus. “And then what happened?”

  He pointed upward. “That’s when the life sphere fell. Not the first one in this region, another came down a few years ago. That time, we got away with just a couple of minor incidents. Nothing serious. Elias sealed the sphere, and folks from Rothmere came to collect it.”

  Sierelith tilted her chin up, suddenly more interested. “But this time, something went wrong, didn’t it?”

  Markus sighed. “It was chaos. People running around, some wanted to see the sphere, others shouted to stay back, ‘just in case.’ But no one was really worried. Elias was handling it. He’s a priest, yeah, but also a powerful mage. Nobody doubted him.” He wiped rain from his forehead with a grimace. “Or at least, we all thought he had it under control.”

  Sierelith frowned. “What could’ve happened to him?”

  Markus shook his head. “I don’t know. But when Elias came back after recovering the sphere, he wasn’t the same. He refused to seal it in the altar. Instead, he embedded it in a staff and started parading around town with it. People got nervous. He said strange things… started preaching outside the temple, giving bizarre sermons. We decided to send someone to Rothmere for help, and that’s when…”

  “When the dead started crawling out of their graves,” Sierelith finished for him.

  The blacksmith nodded. “At first, they could talk. Think. They hugged their families. Spoke like normal people. Elias said there was nothing to fear, that it was a miracle of Orbisar. That they wouldn’t go mad like regular reanimated corpses. Some believed him…” He lowered his gaze. “I believed him.”

  “But it wasn’t a miracle, was it?” Sierelith asked.

  Markus shook his head again. “Didn’t take long before they lost it and started killing. Anyone who died came back and joined the hunt. But they never touched Elias. No. The priest… he controls them. Calls them his ‘faithful.’ I think he’s completely mad.”

  Silence settled over the forge. Only the steady drumming of rain on the roof and the soft crackle of the brazier filled the space.

  Alyra shifted, uneasy.

  The bloodstained tools scattered across the floor weren’t for smithing anymore. They’d been used in combat. Against the undead.

  Judging by the kids’ wounds, they’d fought alongside Markus to hold this place.

  They had barricaded themselves in to survive. One door looked welded shut. The only way in or out was the side entrance she and Sierelith had used, now sealed by that massive wooden beam.

  Sierelith clapped.

  Alyra jumped. What the hell was that lunatic doing now?

  “Impressive, really!” the heretic chirped, way too cheerful for the moment. “Thanks for the story, blacksmith. So now we know exactly what we already knew: Elias is involved, and everything went to shit right after the Life sphere crashed.”

  Sierelith nodded toward Markus. “So, what’s the plan? Stay holed up in here and hope the dead get bored and crawl back into their graves?”

  Markus clenched his jaw. “No. We hold this position until the Sacred Guard shows up. Rothmere’s not far, they’ll send help. We’ve got a better shot surviving here, in my forge, than out there in a jungle swarming with undead.”

  Sierelith’s mouth curled into a sharp smile. She shook her head.

  The blacksmith scowled. “What? Spit it out. Don’t dance around it.”

  She gave him a flat look. “Don’t you think they’d be here already, if they were coming?”

  The kids stirred, whispering nervously to each other.

  Alyra swallowed hard. Sierelith was right. Rothmere wasn’t that far. A few hours on foot. Even less on horseback. And if all this had started days ago…

  Markus didn’t answer. His eyes dropped to the floor.

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” Sierelith said. “Out there, between the trees, I swear I saw one of the undead wearing a Sacred Guard uniform.”

  Markus didn’t speak, but met her gaze. “You sure about that?”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” she said, all too casually. “They already sent someone and it didn’t go well. So now they’re probably regrouping. If they bother at all.”

  She gave a theatrical sigh. “Messy times, huh? Spheres falling out of the sky, rumors of a Messiah walking around, ancient prophecies flaring back to life… I really doubt the holy Church of Orbisar is eager to waste its precious troops on this forgotten mudhole.”

  Alyra clenched her fists. That idiot was scaring the kids. Maybe she should actually punch her this time, just to shut her up. “The Cashnar is here in Ebonshade!” she blurted.

  Everyone turned to stare.

  Her face went red, but she lifted her chin. “He’s not alone. He has people with him. And I… I know they’re looking for us.” She shot a quick glance at Sierelith, who was now smirking with that insufferable crooked smile. “They’ll find us. We just need to hold out a little longer. Have faith.”

  Markus raised his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “You serious, kid?”

  She nodded, firm and steady.

  The big man’s smile widened, and he turned to the children. “You hear that, boys? The Cashnar himself has come to Ebonshade! A miracle! Praise Orbisar—we’re saved!”

  The kids visibly relaxed, relief spreading across their soot-streaked faces. The smallest one even smiled, a tear sliding down his one good cheek.

  Alyra smiled back.

  Sierelith, meanwhile, looked completely unimpressed. “Well then,” the heretic said, shrugging. “You all stay here and wait for your Messiah.”

  She walked over to the massive beam sealing the door and stopped in front of it. Then she threw a glance over her shoulder at Markus. “Mind lifting that for me? I’ve got business to take care of.”

  The blacksmith frowned. “It’s a mess out there. Undead everywhere. I can’t let you just wander off alone and unarmed. What exactly are you planning?”

  Sierelith raised a hand, and a cloud of violet mist swirled around her. When it cleared, a decomposing man stood in her place, sunken cheeks, rotting flesh, and a strip of skin peeling from his temple to reveal bare bone.

  Markus staggered back. The kids screamed.

  Alyra scowled. There she goes again. Always something dramatic.

  The undead groaned, lifted a hand, and another puff of violet smoke spiraled around him.

  When it cleared, Sierelith stood there once more, her expression flat as ever. “I’m an illusion mage. If I’m not stuck babysitting, I can move through the undead unnoticed.”

  She glanced at Markus. “So let me out. What I’m doing doesn’t concern you.”

  The blacksmith cleared his throat, walked over, and—without so much as a grunt—lifted the beam aside.

  He didn’t look too worried about stopping her anymore. If anything, he seemed almost eager to see her go.

  “Where are you going?” Alyra asked. You could never tell what kind of nonsense that crazy woman was planning.

  Sierelith gave her a crooked half-smile. “I’m going to see where the Messiah ran off to,” she said.

  Then she vanished into the rain.

  Alyra watched her go, her stomach twisting. She was definitely up to something, and the fact that she hadn’t shared it wasn’t a good sign.

  She still didn’t know if letting her leave had been the smartest move…

  or the biggest mistake of the night.