The spring fog hung low over the northern coast, swallowing rows of silvery-white tents that stood tightly packed, like the scales of a sleeping dragon. The Church's banners fluttered weakly in the salty sea wind, their golden crosses reflecting the light of the torches flickering at every corner of the camp. Yet behind that glittering display, the air was heavy with something unseen tension, fear, and prayers that felt hollow.
The faint sound of clashing metal echoed in the distance. Soldiers checked their swords, sharpened their spears, and adjusted the worn straps of their shields. Whispers of prayer rippled through the air, some quiet, others trembling.
"They say… the Zombie Queen has begun to move," murmured a young soldier, his face pale beneath his helmet.
"Are you sure that's not just a rumor?" his comrade replied, glancing warily toward the fog-covered hills.
