A guttural roar broke out behind them.
It wasn't a horse.
It was something hauled up from the wreck of a throat—thick, broken, and beast-like.
The night felt torn open.
The sound crawled out of that unseen rip, carrying the damp, rotten stink of decay.
The ground trembled. Dust fell from the broken wall, drifting down like pale, weightless snow.
And the tremor didn't come from one direction.
It came from all around, as if something vast was slowly closing in.
Chun felt a sudden pull. Wei had her by the arm and was dragging her out before she could think.
She kicked and fought in his hold. Broken sobs rose in her throat, sounds that weren't quite crying, but carried something worse than tears.
"Move," Wei rasped in her ear."If you want to live, move."
Chun had no strength left. She felt herself half carried, half dragged as Wei pulled her out of the collapsed room and into the narrow lane between two rows of thatched huts.
The light in the forest was already failing.
The lane was darker still.
And far more dangerous.
The wall on the left had collapsed to half a man's height, charred black by fire. Now and then, glowing ash drifted down from the roofs like dying fireflies.
On the right, the eaves of the houses had caved in entirely, forcing the path into a space barely wide enough for an arm.
Behind them, the sound of hooves grew sharper.
Not running.
Not rushing.
Just that steady, unhurried approach. It was like a predator that had already spotted its prey and was simply deciding where to bite first.
Chun clenched her teeth.
She knew she couldn't leave everything on the shoulders of a boy only a year older than she was.
At the end of the lane was a small square where the villagers gathered after supper. It was silent now.
Too silent,
and something in her gut told her something was waiting for them there.
Suddenly, she felt Wei stop.
He pulled her left, slipped into the nearest thatched hut before the lane opened into the square. The distance, the shape, the roof fading almost completely into the night, something in it tugged at her.
A familiar ache. It took her a moment to realize it was Wei's home.
She felt Wei's grip tighten on her hand, tight enough to hurt.
She didn't say a word, only followed him into the darkness.
Inside, a faint smell drifted through the still air.
Warm. Soft.
Food.
It was the smell of Wei's mother's rabbit stew.
She could almost hear Wei's mother calling to her:"Chun, you're here. Try some. Come, have the best piece." Then placing the plumpest leg in her bowl.
Wei's breathing grew fast.
She knew what he feared.
Not the dark.
Not the doorway that yawned like a hollow skull.
Not the emptiness pressing in on them.
He was afraid of stepping on something cold on the floor.
Afraid it would be his mother.
Afraid of a silence that would never answer him again.
Chun had only just climbed out of her grief.
Her nose was still red.
The moment she stepped inside, the air felt cold.
Not the kind of cold that comes from a room.
A colder one.
The kind that starts somewhere in the chest and spreads.
She dreaded seeing that gentle woman again.
The warmth in the woman's eyes, once comforting, now felt like something sharp.
She didn't want Wei to walk into that same hurt.
Tears gathered again.
She held them back, biting her lip until it stung.
She shrank into herself like a frightened animal in the dark.
Even so, she reached back and gripped Wei's hand.
It was all the strength she could give him.
Together, guided more by instinct than sight, they felt their way into the room.
It was empty.
The quiet steadied Wei a little.
His breathing found its rhythm again.
"Come with me," he said.
His voice was low, but there was a hard thread in it, holding him together.
Chun followed him to the corner where he slept.
Wei raised a hand and pushed at the wooden wall.
It gave with a soft, rasping sound.
A hidden window.
Chun blinked.
The houses here were built from stacked logs, tight against winter wind.
No one would bother carving a secret window into such a wall.
No one except Wei.
She wanted to smile at that, but her face didn't know how anymore.
Wei leaned out.
Stopped.
Frozen, as if something had struck him.
The last light on the horizon was fading when Chun saw his face.
Tears ran down his cheeks without hesitation, released like water breaking through after a long night with no sleep and no hope.
From that window, the little square lay open to the dying light.
Bodies lay in rows—
Old ones, young ones, and the smallest shapes of all, no bigger than a child's cradle.
Every face was turned the same way.
Every body held a similar pose.
As if, in their final moments, they had been arranged for some grim ritual.
There was no wind.
Even death felt too quiet.
Every body had the same wound in the chest.
A hole.
The red muscle folded outward.
The blood had dried into a thick, dark crust.
The air turned cold in an instant.
Chun swayed.
Her knees gave way, and she sank to the ground.
The last thing she saw was the row of bodies, and in front of them, someone standing there.
No.
Not someone.
Something.
It must have heard the stir of the wind.
It raised its head, slow and stiff.
The firelight caught the shape of a bald skull, the forehead shining with a greasy sheen.
A thin braid hung from the top—a rat's tail, twitching once in the heat.
The face was black and glossy, the skin pulled tight like stone, no softness left.
The face of the undead.
Golden bracers glinted with a cold, unnatural light.
The leather armor was scorched, split along charred seams, as if the cracks had been packed with oil and blood.
It was tall, too tall,
taller than the biggest man in the village.
Its shoulders were broad as a wall.
It stood there like a black bear hammered awake.
Its eyes were pure white.
No pupils.
Yet the corners twitched, a small, strained movement—
as if it was trying to remember how to look.
Its hands were covered with dark, clotted blood.
Blood dripped slowly between the fingers.
The hands were huge, each knuckle sharp as a block of iron.
In its hands was a heart. Half of one.
It lowered its head, like it didn't want to finish the last bite.
Then—
it noticed them.
Those pupil-less white eyes turned toward Wei and Chun with uncanny precision.
Not sight.
Instinct.
A predator's lock.
The creature opened its mouth.
That was not a human smile.
The corners tore upward, splitting toward the ears.