Requiem of the Abyss & The Dawn's Call

The road stretched endlessly before them, a winding path of dirt and stone carved through rolling hills and dark forests. The army moved in near silence, the rhythmic march of armored boots and the creak of leather straps the only sounds breaking the still air.

Lucian rode near the front, his gaze scanning the horizon. The tension among the soldiers was undeniable. They had fought rebels before—but the rumors that had spread over the past days had unsettled even the most seasoned warriors. Villages abandoned. No corpses. No signs of life. Just silence.

Seraphina rode beside him, her posture rigid, her expression unreadable. "The men are nervous," she said, her voice cutting through the quiet.

"They're right to be," Lucian admitted. "Something isn't adding up."

She didn't respond, only tightening her grip on the reins of her horse.

Behind them, the Silver Hawks moved separately from the main force. Dain Irvath, ever relaxed despite the weight of the situation, rode at the front of his guild's formation, leading a small group of warriors—including their newest recruit.

Elias adjusted the strap of his bag, sighing. "I joined this guild five hours ago, and I'm already marching to war? I haven't even seen our damn guild house."

Seric Vaughn smirked beside him, flipping a dagger between his fingers. "You wanted excitement, didn't you?"

Elias shot him a dry look. "Yeah, but I was hoping for something like breaking up bar fights or chasing thieves. Not marching into what might be a monster-infested warzone."

Dain chuckled. "You'll get used to it. Or you won't. Either way, you'll figure it out soon enough."

Elias muttered something under his breath but kept walking.

The day passed with little change. The road remained eerily empty. By sundown, the army made camp near a ruined watchtower, setting up a perimeter of torches and barricades. The flickering light did little to chase away the oppressive darkness creeping in from the treeline.

Lucian stood near the command tent, arms crossed as a scout reported in hushed tones. "Another village, same as the others. Houses left intact, doors wide open, but not a single soul inside. No blood. No signs of struggle."

Seraphina's expression darkened. "This isn't the work of ordinary rebels."

Lucian exhaled slowly. "Then what are we dealing with?"

The scout hesitated before speaking. "…Some of the men say it's not rebels at all. They think the dead are walking."

A chill ran down Lucian's spine. Superstition. Fear talking. And yet… the unease gnawed at him.

Seraphina dismissed the scout and turned to Lucian. "You don't believe that, do you?"

"I don't know what to believe," he admitted. "But something is out there."

The night stretched on, the air thick with tension. Soldiers sat around fires, speaking in hushed tones. Some cleaned their weapons. Others prayed.

Then, the silence broke.

A scream tore through the night, raw and filled with terror.

Lucian's hand was on his sword instantly. Across the camp, torches flared to life as men scrambled for their weapons. Shadows moved beyond the treeline—fast, unnatural.

Then, the first body fell.

Chaos erupted. The camp was under attack.