Elian gripped the iron crucifix around his neck as the ground quaked beneath their feet. Beside him, Vlad stumbled backward, nearly dropping the lantern, its light flickering wildly in the encroaching dark. The air had turned foul—rancid, like decayed meat and sulfur.
Dozens of graves cracked open.
From each, skeletal hands, rotted arms, and hollow-eyed corpses clawed their way free, drawn by Father Luka's summons. They weren't mindless. They moved with purpose. They were *hungry*.
"Run," Elian growled, grabbing Vlad by the collar. "Now!"
But Luka stepped in their path, eyes aflame, voice deepened with something inhuman. "You run from me, Elian? After all I taught you?"
"You betrayed us," Elian spat. "You gave your soul away."
"I *gave it for you,*" Luka said, stepping forward. "To break the curse. To save you all."
The dead moaned behind him, shifting, clawing, hissing.
"You've doomed us," Vlad whispered.
"No," Luka smiled. "I've *freed* us."
Suddenly, a shriek split the night. One of the corpses lunged for Vlad. Elian turned, slamming his crucifix against its face. Steam hissed from its skin, and it fell back, screeching.
"Their bodies are hollow," Elian said. "But the soul is trapped. We have to burn them."
A hand grabbed his ankle—then another. The ground was swallowing them. The dead were pulling them in.
"*Seventh son... seventh son…*" they chanted.
Elian struggled free, kicking hard. "Luka! Why are they saying that?!"
"Because you still haven't chosen," Luka said, arms wide. "Your blood will either break the curse… or seal it forever."
And then the corpses surged forward.
—