Chapter 173
The road to Merfleur was long, a scar that cut through the wasteland like a wound that never healed. The survivors of the united guild marched in silence, their weapons strapped to weary shoulders, their eyes fixed on the horizon. The land around them bore the marks of the plague's hunger trees once lush now stood as brittle husks, their twisted branches clawing at the sky. Fields that should have been golden with harvest were nothing but cracked earth and thorny weeds, whispering in the wind like the voices of the damned. The air itself grew heavier with every step closer to the city, as though Merfleur's shadow stretched far beyond its walls.
At last, the ruins came into view. Merfleur, once known for its artistry and quiet charm, lay broken. Its marble streets were shattered, its bell towers stood crooked and silent, the great bronze bells within hanging like corpses that refused to swing. What had once been a city of flowers and solemn rituals now resembled a mausoleum. The silence of the bells was more dreadful than any clamor—they seemed to promise that no soul here would ever be mourned properly.
But the city was far from lifeless.
Ten thousand undead filled its streets, an army of forgers that had long since ceased to be human. Their bodies were twisted by curse and rot, but their hands still moved with dreadful precision, hammering, binding, and building. These were no mindless husks. They were craftsmen even in undeath, skeletal and bloated figures that worked tirelessly at their forges. Smoke rose from half-collapsed workshops, the glow of molten iron leaking through cracked walls. The air reeked of ash, old oil, and burning flesh.
The forgers labored on grotesque weapons of war massive ballistae mounted on crumbling rooftops, their bolts carved from bone and rusted steel. Rows of undead operated crossbows strung with sinew, their arrows dipped in black venom that dripped like tar. The rhythm of their labor was like a war drum, a steady thud and grind that echoed across the ruined streets.
Above the walls, silhouettes moved, undead archers with empty sockets where eyes once gleamed, their heads twitching as if sensing prey beyond the horizon. Rusted armor clung to their frames, and some still wore the faded colors of Merfleur's fallen guard, as if mocking the honor they once swore to uphold.
And deeper still, from within the bell towers, came faint, hollow sounds. Not the peal of bells, but the rattle of chains, the scraping of claws against stone. Something else stirred in Merfleur, something that even the forgers seemed to avoid.
The guild's march slowed. The silence among the players was no longer only grief, it was the weight of knowing that before them lay not just a city of the dead, but a fortress of industry, where the plague had turned skill into terror. The Silent Bells did not ring, but the air itself promised that the hour of reckoning would soon strike.
The march to Merfleur was not without blood. On the first day, the guild of 110 survivors found their path blocked by a swarm of undead goblin riders, their skeletal mounts clattering across the dry earth like drums of war. At their center rode a hulking hobgoblin general, his rusted armor hanging in strips, his rotted jaw clicking open and shut as if barking orders no living ear could hear. But the guild did not falter.
Charlotte's fire-blade carved through the riders in sweeping arcs, while Jacob's magma scorched the field to molten ash. Oliver's poisoned darts found every weak spot, Rainey's insects devoured flesh from bone, and Sabine, shifting into her tiger form, ripped through the hobgoblin general with a single, decisive strike. By dusk, the horde was nothing more than piles of broken corpses. They ended the day with another victory—and, to their relief, not a single life lost.
The second day dawned less merciful. As the sun clawed its way up the horizon, an undead manticore descended upon them, its wings tattered but still strong enough to blot out the light. Its scorpion tail lashed down with venom that melted stone, while its lion's head roared a hollow, soul-chilling cry. The guild fought hard, Natasha freezing its wings mid-flight while Noah's iron skin let him withstand the beast's strikes long enough for Sabine to leap onto its back and crush its spine.
No sooner had they drawn breath than the ground trembled. From the river's edge slithered a host of undead naga, their scales mottled with rot, their hands clutching jagged tridents. They struck with unnatural coordination, encircling the players in a twisting wall of death. Farrah's vines surged upward, forming barriers that split the naga apart, while Jacob's molten waves boiled the river, burning their scaled flesh to nothing. Just as silence seemed to return, a pack of undead Enfields, wolf-fox hybrids with raven wings came shrieking down from the cliffs.
Their speed and cunning made them terrifying predators, but Oliver's poisoned darts and Rainey's clouds of insects drove them from the skies until Charlotte's blazing blade severed the last of them mid-flight. By the time night fell, the guild still stood. Exhausted, battered, but still whole.
On the third day, as they prepared their next march, Natasha Sokolov received word that lifted the veil of grief from many hearts. A pixie messenger, wings shimmering with faint runes, descended upon their camp carrying a scroll sealed in frost-marked wax. Natasha broke it with shaking hands, scanning the words.
Her eyes widened, and for the first time in days, her lips curved into something close to a smile. Her older brother's message confirmed that those comrades they had sent back through the teleportation scrolls had survived. They were safe, treated, and already recovering. Not only that many had expressed their desire to return, to rejoin the quest despite everything.
Natasha wasted no time. She scribbled down the guild's coordinates, her hand steady despite the tremor of emotion in her chest. When the writing was done, she folded the parchment and pressed it into the pixie's tiny hands. She then reached into her pouch and drew out five gleaming gold coins. The camp gasped softly, such an amount for a single messenger was unheard of. But Natasha only smiled faintly as she pressed them forward.
The pixie, a towering twelve-foot figure by fae standards, blinked in disbelief before bursting into joyous laughter. Its wings glittered brighter, and with a squeal of delight, it tucked the coins into its enchanted pouch as though safeguarding treasure beyond compare. "So much! So very much!" the pixie cried, spinning in circles before clutching the scroll close.
"Deliver it swiftly," Natasha commanded, her voice cold but laced with urgency.
The pixie bowed deeply, wings flaring wide. "It will fly faster than the wind itself!"
And then it was gone, a streak of light darting across the sky.
The guild watched in silence. For the first time since their march began, hope stirred among the weary. Reinforcements might come. Their numbers might swell once more. And with that fragile ember of hope burning in their hearts, the survivors turned their gaze again toward the ruined horizon of Merfleur.
Not long after Natasha's messenger vanished into the distance, another shimmer of light descended from the dusky sky. The air trembled as a second pixie messenger, its wings gleaming with emerald sparks, drifted down into the camp. Its hands clutched a sealed letter stamped with the sigil of the East Lazarus Guild. Charlotte's heart clenched as she broke the seal, Jacob standing close at her side.
The words inside were simple, yet heavy with relief, the wounded they had sent home through scrolls had reached the guild's main stronghold alive. The healers there had treated them, and though their bodies bore scars, they were out of danger. More than that, the letter carried a vow: the Lazarus guild members who remained at the stronghold were readying themselves to rejoin the quest. They would come, no matter the cost.
Charlotte lowered the letter, her fiery eyes softening for the first time since the cursed battle. Jacob nodded once, his usual sternness breaking into a faint smile. Without hesitation, the two reached into their coin pouches, each producing five gold coins. They pressed them into the pixie's tiny hands together, their movements synchronized like a ritual.
The pixie blinked, its enormous eyes widening at the gleam of the treasure. "Five… five coins? Each?!" it squealed, voice cracking in disbelief. Its twelve-foot frame wobbled as it tucked the coins deep into its enchanted pouch, patting it protectively as if guarding a newborn child.
"Deliver the coordinates exactly," Jacob said firmly, handing the parchment marked with their location.
Charlotte leaned forward, her tone softer but edged with command. "Fly fast, little one. Tell them—we'll be waiting."
The pixie let out a high laugh that echoed like bells, bowing so low its head nearly brushed the dirt. "So much gold! So much trust! I will not fail you!" And with a flare of emerald light, it shot into the night sky, vanishing beyond the stars.
By then, the campfires were already lit, their embers flickering against the coming dark. The three guild leaders gathered around the largest fire, Charlotte and Jacob Lazarus, Natasha Sokolov, and Mary Kaye, the quiet yet sharp-eyed leader of the third guild that had marched with them since the first cursed city. Their armor was battered, their cloaks singed, but their presence commanded the circle like generals meeting before a siege.
The crackle of flames filled the silence before Mary Kaye finally spoke. "We've endured three days of marching, and already we've faced manticores, nagas, and more twisted things than most would see in a lifetime. Yet the worst still lies ahead.
Mary Kaye's voice lingered in the firelit circle, the words twisting like smoke into every ear that listened. "Merfleur might not be completely broken into ruins. We've assumed too much. Daniel's long-range attack… it may have shattered the outer districts, but it's doubtful it reached the true heart of the city. The main enemy, the one commanding the forgers, could still be alive." She leaned forward, her eyes reflecting the embers.
"And we cannot forget, Merfleur isn't just a city of soldiers. It is a fortress, one of the largest in this cursed land. Three thousand forgers, seven thousand of their kin. Families that died, then rose again to serve the plague. Their numbers alone make the city impossible to treat like a husk of ruins."
The fire popped loudly, sparks flying up into the night. The players sitting just beyond the circle shifted uneasily, whispering among themselves. The thought of facing ten thousand undead some skilled, some innocent but twisted into horrors pressed heavily on them all.
Jacob's brow furrowed, the flames casting shadows across his stern face. "So not just warriors, but entire households. Men, women, children. All forgers in life, all now enslaved in death. Which means the city is not only fortified but producing weapons faster than we can break them. Ballistae, crossbows, siege towers, gods know what else, they'll rain death on us before we even touch the gates."
Charlotte's fire-lit eyes narrowed, her voice carrying the weight of iron resolve. "Then we hold until reinforcements return. Every name, every face we've lost, we'll make them count. If Merfleur wants to swallow us, then it will choke on our steel first.
" Her words cut through the night like a drawn blade, and for a moment the weariness in the air eased. She leaned closer, lowering her tone, as though revealing a secret she had kept hidden until now. "The quest rules don't forbid numbers. It only requires that those who join are members of a guild.
That means the East Lazarus still has two hundred members at the stronghold, fighters who couldn't join us before because they were tied down with missions and quests when we left. But now, their duties are finished. They're already on the road, making their way here."
The campfire crackled as silence fell over the meeting, the weight of her words sinking in. Mary Kaye's eyes widened, her shoulders straightening as if some invisible chain had been unshackled. The exhaustion in her face, the sag of someone burdened by too much death and too many losses, seemed to lift, replaced by a flicker of fire not seen since the march began. Hope, fragile yet undeniable, sparked in her chest.
She pressed a hand over her heart, unable to contain the small, trembling smile that came. "Two hundred…" she whispered, almost reverently.
"By the gods, it's as though fortune has finally turned her gaze upon us." The weary guild leaders, their bodies battered from days of blood and dread, found themselves leaning closer to the fire, feeling, for the first time in too long, that perhaps they were not walking into a doomed fortress, but into a fight they could still win.
Natasha, who had remained quiet until now, finally lifted her gaze from the fire. Her voice was cool, clipped, every word sharpened like a blade honed on stone. "You're all assuming their leaders will wait behind their walls," she said, her tone calm but carrying a shadow that chilled the air around them. "But what if they don't?
What if they unleash something worse?" Her eyes, pale as winter frost, flicked briefly toward the direction of Merfleur, as though she could already see the fortress looming in the distance. "Daniel's strike may not have destroyed them, it may have only stirred the hive. If the commander of Merfleur survived, then he knows we're coming. And he won't sit idle. He'll be preparing even now… waiting for the perfect moment to strike back."
The words sank like lead into the small circle, smothering the brief flame of hope that had been flickering just moments before. The fire cracked and hissed, throwing shadows that seemed to stretch longer, darker. Even Mary Kaye's hopeful expression faltered, her lips pressing into a thin line as the weight of Natasha's warning pressed against her chest.
Jacob shifted uneasily, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, his jaw clenching as though grinding down the thought that she might be right. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the wind carrying faint whispers through the trees, a reminder that Merfleur was no ordinary fortress, and its commander no ordinary foe.
Mary Kaye leaned forward, the firelight catching the hard glint in her eyes. She let Natasha's words hang in the air for a moment, the silence stretching taut like a drawn bowstring before she answered. "You're not wrong," she admitted, her tone steady but weighted with the same exhaustion everyone carried. "Merfleur's commander will be waiting, and Daniel's strike may have lit a torch over our heads. But that attack bought us time, Natasha, time we would never have had otherwise. The forgers are wounded, the walls weakened, their ranks shaken. If we hesitate too long, that time slips through our fingers."
Charlotte, seated opposite her, nodded sharply in agreement. Her fire-lit eyes glowed with fierce determination, but her voice carried a tempered edge of caution. "Mary's right. We move, but not recklessly. We fortify as we go, every step closer to Merfleur, we carve out ground they can't take back. If we stay strong and hold together, then by the time reinforcements arrive, we won't just face Merfleur, we'll be ready for the capital itself. The quest doesn't forbid it. And if we're patient, the tide will turn in our favor."
Natasha's gaze flickered between them, unshaken but thoughtful. She crossed her arms, her sharp profile shadowed in the fire's glow. "Or," she countered coolly, "we take the fight further. Clear Merfleur, then press on and establish our fortified camp not outside its walls, but within striking distance of the capital itself.
Make them sweat knowing we're already at their doorstep. It will force their hand, drive them into mistakes." Her lips curved in the faintest, most dangerous hint of a smile. "But it's a gamble. If we misstep, the capital will crush us before reinforcements can even arrive."
The fire popped, sparks spiraling upward into the night sky as the three guild leaders held each other's gaze. The weight of choice pressed on them, caution or boldness, patience or provocation. And somewhere in the dark beyond the firelight, the road to Merfleur waited, silent as the bells that no longer rang.
The fire crackled low, each ember casting faint shadows that danced across the faces gathered around the circle. The night was heavy with exhaustion, yet sharper still with the weight of decision. The battlefield behind them was quiet, but it was a silence that pressed on the soul, as if even the dead held their breath to see what choice would be made.
Charlotte Lazarus sat forward, her firelit eyes narrowed, her hand wrapped tight around the hilt of her dagger until the leather grip creaked. The faint glimmer of her fire blade caught on her cheek, painting her like a warrior-priestess of flame. She turned her gaze to Natasha, voice steady, low, carrying the steel of command.
"Natasha, your gamble would shake them, I won't deny it. But it would also break us. We're too few to risk being caught between Merfleur and the capital with no ground of our own. If we rush blindly, the capital won't need to lift a finger, the city itself will finish us off. And then what? Our reinforcements arrive to nothing but ashes, to corpses that no longer hold swords."
Her words cut through the night like flint against steel. Jacob Lazarus shifted beside her, his broad frame half-lit by the flames, molten light flickering in his eyes as though the lava he commanded smoldered within him. His voice was a low rumble, carrying the weight of earth and fire both.
"Charlotte's right," Jacob growled. "Merfleur is no husk. The forgers will have lined its walls with siege engines. Every rooftop, every courtyard, every alley could be a killing ground. Ballistae, crossbows, poison-tipped bolts they'll turn that fortress into a beast's jaw ready to snap shut. If we march further without securing ground, we'll walk straight into its teeth."
Mary Kaye, her posture measured and calm, leaned back in her seat, fingers steepled beneath her chin like a tactician weighing not only lives but the fate of a war. Her shovel, scarred and runed from years of battle, rested beside her knee. She exhaled softly, her words carrying the steady toll of a funeral bell.
"Charlotte speaks truth, and Jacob gives it form. This is not about one daring strike, Natasha. This is about surviving long enough to end this war. If we anchor near Merfleur, we hold ground. We let our reinforcements reach us, and when they do we strike with the force of three guilds, not a battered remnant. When the capital falls, it won't be because we gambled, it will be because we drowned them beneath a tide they could not hold back."
The circle shifted. Cody Lazarus, seated a little apart, his hands scarred from the raw force of shockwave bursts, leaned forward, restless. His voice was sharper, younger, eager but edged with unease.
"But waiting means giving them time, too," Cody argued. "They'll rebuild. They'll rally. What if by the time our reinforcements arrive, Merfleur is stronger than before?"
Emma, sitting cross-legged with her scrolls and notes splayed across her lap, lifted her head. The reflection of the fire glinted against her thoughtful eyes, the same eyes that could peer into an enemy and see every weakness laid bare. "No city can mend itself overnight," she countered gently. "Not after Daniel's strike. Their forgers may still breathe, but their machines are wounded. And even if they prepare, we'll know their weaknesses before they can strike, we won't walk in blind."
Beside her, Bonnie Lazarus tilted her head back, her hair catching the flicker of the flames. Her voice was soft but heavy, like the weight of gravity itself. "Emma's right. And if they dare rebuild too quickly, I'll make them choke on the weight of their own walls. I can bring their siege towers down before they fire a single bolt."
Natasha, cool and sharp as frozen steel, listened to every word in silence. Her crossbow leaned against her shoulder, frost lingering faintly along the steel bolts at her side. When she finally spoke, her tone was precise, each word measured as if carved from ice.
"You all speak of survival, of fortifying, of waiting. But remember this: hesitation is as dangerous as recklessness. Daniel's strike bought us time, yes, but it also stirred the hive. If Merfleur's commander lives, and I believe he does he will not sit idly behind his walls. He will prepare, he will send out scouts, perhaps even strike first. If we let them dictate the pace, then we bleed before we even begin."
The fire snapped, sending a burst of sparks spiraling skyward. The circle fell into silence, the weight of Natasha's warning settling heavily. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Charlotte leaned forward, her face carved in determination, her dagger glinting like a promise in her hand.
"Then we don't give them the chance," she said, her voice low but fierce. "We move to Merfleur with caution. We carve ground inch by inch, and we hold it. We build a fortress of our own within reach of their walls, and when our reinforcements come ,when the East Lazarus arrive, when every name and face we've been waiting for joins us, we turn that city into their grave. And from Merfleur, we march on the capital not as survivors clinging to hope, but as an army bound by the blood of the fallen."
Jacob's hand slammed against his knee in agreement, the sound like a war drum. Mary Kaye bowed her head in assent, the glimmer of cold resolve in her eyes. Cody and Emma exchanged a glance, fire of youth against the tempering steel of resolve. Bonnie simply smiled faintly, her hand resting on the hilt of her weapon as though it were already decided.
Natasha's gaze swept the circle, her lips pressing into a thin line before she finally inclined her head. "Very well," she said. "We hold Merfleur. But mark my words, when the time comes, hesitation cannot guide us. If the commander of Merfleur shows himself, I'll put an arrow through his heart before he breathes a second order."
The hush that followed was deep, almost reverent, as if the night itself bore witness. The fire popped again, sparks leaping into the air, and Charlotte's thin, fierce smile returned as she spoke the final word.
"Then it's settled. We hold Merfleur. We wait for our kin. And when the bells of the capital toll again, they will toll for the dead."
Tomorrow they would march into Merfleur's shadow, not as fools chasing glory, but as guardians of every life they had already lost. The Silent Bells might not ring for them yet, but when the time came, the sound that rose from their ranks would be the kind that toppled fortresses and rewrote endings.