The Dead Walk Again
The air inside the command tent was so still it almost hurt to breathe.
The wounded commander knelt before Garay, the mud of the battlefield still clinging to his armor. Blood—dark, half-dried—marked his cheek like a brand of shame. The tent's flame shivered, and shadows twisted along the walls, warping every face into something tired, older, more haunted.
Garay's glare cut through the man's trembling. His voice came low, deliberate, with the kind of fury that didn't explode—it burned.
"Leon Moonwalker is dead," he said again, quieter now, every word heavy with memory. "So what the fuck are you saying?"
The commander's eyes were wet, his throat working to form words that refused to come. His breath rasped, and when he finally spoke, his voice cracked like old timber.
"I don't know, sire," he whispered. "But the dead… walk again."
