Knights rushed in and out of the main office, their armor clanking in harsh contrast to the steady patter of rain outside. Some hauled torches and large barrels, their faces set and grim beneath their helmets. Others carried bundles of arrows and boxes filled with small glass jars glowing with an eerie orange liquid. Diomede pressed his back against the cold stone wall in the shadowed hallway of the holding cells, watching it all unfold with sharp eyes. The storm outside seemed distant, muffled by the thick walls, but inside the tension was as thick as the fog that clung to the air.
Francisco peeked over Diomede's shoulder and caught sight of Commander Ruffgaurd descending the grand stone staircase that split the main entrance. The commander wiped his scarred hands on a rag, his heavy boots echoing with deliberate authority. Francisco nudged Diomede, nodding toward Ruffgaurd's presence.
Diomede shifted closer, each step deliberate and silent. As Ruffgaurd reached the last step, he dropped the rag onto a knight's torch without ceremony. "Status report," he demanded, his voice cold and commanding.
The knight holding the torch kept pace behind him. "Information about the outbreak is still being gathered, sir. Elite Panagiot has been informed and is currently outside."
Ruffgaurd's eyes narrowed as he turned sharply. "What type of undead outbreak is it?"
The knight straightened, a rigid soldier's posture. "No signs of bites or infectious discharge have been found on any of the dead, sir."
"No bio-infection?" Ruffgaurd muttered, fiddling absently with the beaded chain hanging from his belt. "Any cursed marks or branding?"
"No, sir."
The commander's face hardened. "Panagiot suspects it is necromancy. The undead are former knights — the ones the Gultonk killed."
Diomede felt a chill crawl along his spine, an old unease stirring deep in his gut. The word necromancy tasted like ash.
Ruffgaurd's voice thundered through the hall as he stomped toward the entrance. "If that's true, Umar's kingdom faces unholy magic at its core. I want every villager brought here immediately! If the necromancer is among us, we will root him out!"
Diomede's mind raced. "What of the prisoners?" he heard a knight ask, voice edged with uncertainty.
Ruffgaurd laughed — a hollow, bitter sound. "I've already dealt with her."
The weight in Diomede's chest tightened. He needed to find Kira before it was too late.
As Ruffgaurd and the knight left, Diomede slipped from behind the pillar and motioned for Francisco to follow. The hallway was thick with the smell of damp stone and fear. "What now?" Francisco whispered.
"We find her," Diomede said. "Can you cast something to make us look like knights?"
Francisco shook his head, "Nothing strong enough — not without my gear."
Diomede sighed, the urgency sharpening every second. "Then we go in as we are."
At the top of the next flight of stairs, Diomede turned. "There's something else. Kira isn't just any prisoner."
Francisco's eyes widened. "What?"
"She's a chosen cleric of Gia."
Shock rippled across Francisco's features, his breath catching in his throat. He grasped Diomede's tunic, voice low but fierce. "Are you sure?"
Diomede met his gaze steadily. "Yes. Whoever raised the dead is after her."
Without hesitation, Francisco pushed past and moved down the hallway with newfound determination. "If I find her first, I won't leave without you."
Before Diomede could reply, Francisco cut his palm with a dagger. Blood pooled in his hand, vivid and raw.
"I swear on my blood," Francisco said, "I will find her and aid your quest."
Diomede closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of the oath. Then, shimmering images of twin axes — ornately carved with bear motifs — appeared in his palms. He grasped them as the images solidified into weapons.
He sliced his own palm, the sharp sting grounding him. "I accept your oath. Together, we will see this through."
Their hands clasped tightly before they parted ways.
Diomede pressed on, opening every door he passed — only to find empty offices and dusty records. The silence gnawed at his hope.
Then came the clatter of armor — the unmistakable sound of two knights marching up the stairs, carrying a large, heavy box, ominous in its size and weight. Diomede's heart tightened. Idiots, he thought. They don't know what they carry.
Movement caught his eye — Francisco, returning from his search, more bloodied than before. Diomede could tell, it wasn't his blood.
Diomede tried to signal him but it was too late.The knights reached the landing and their gazes locked on Francisco.
With no hesitation, Diomede sprang into action, twin axes gleaming in the dim light. One swift strike severed the head from one knight; the other reacted too slowly, losing an arm as Diomede danced past his wild swings.
The death rattle of the fallen knights echoed through the stairwell.
Breathing hard, Diomede turned to Francisco, pale but determined. "Come, valiant one. She needs us."
They slipped into a small chamber at the end of the hall. With in the room the smell of burned flesh burst from the room.
There in the center, chained to a table, was Kira.
Francisco placed his hand on Diomede's shoulder, "I am going to go find my things, I can not aid you without them." Diomede nodded, " Quickly, I'll meet you at the bottom of the stairs." Francisco sped off.
Her body was a brutal map of torment — deep gashes marked her arms and neck, her left ear nearly severed, her shattered nose and jagged teeth giving her face a broken mask. Scorched burns, shaped like handprints, mottled her scalp. The air was thick with the coppery stench of blood, mingling with the faint metallic scent of sharpened blades.
On the table beside her lay an open box, its interior lined with sharp, bloodstained cadavers.
Kira's eyes fluttered open, a weak groan escaping her cracked lips.
Diomede knelt, carefully breaking the chains binding her.
"Water," she whispered.
He grabbed a vase from a nearby table, placing it beside her. As she dipped her hand into it, an intense, blinding light flooded the room — stretching even into the hallway beyond.
When the light faded, Kira's wounds had begun to heal — her nose and teeth restored, some cuts closed, though the burns still marred her skin like scars etched by fire.
Diomede offered his hand.
She ignored it, steadying herself on a chair.
"What's happening outside?" she asked, voice fragile.
Diomede crossed his arms. "The knights— the ones killed by the Gultonk — have risen. They're attacking the village."
"Will you fight them?" she asked, eyes flickering with pain and something colder — resolve.
"No," Diomede said flatly. "My goal is to get you out alive. Whoever raised the dead is hunting you."
Her gaze locked on his.
"...You're him, aren't you?" she breathed.
Diomede nodded grimly.
Her breath hitched, panic threatening to overwhelm her — nearly sending her to the floor if he hadn't caught her.
"Breathe," Diomede murmured. "You're not healed yet."
He lifted her into his arms despite her struggling protests.
"I can walk," she spat. "I don't need a beast like you!"
He ignored her words.
"We don't have time."
They rounded the corner, moving past the corpses of the knights at the top of the stairs.
At the bottom, a figure waited — a woman draped in a heavy cloak, white hair pulled back tight, bow drawn and aimed steadily at both Clayto and Francisco.
"Great," Diomede thought, tightening his grip.