The last evacuation ship cut through the murky water, leaving the burning city of Greyhaven behind. Hugo stood at the stern, watching flames climb the city's towers. Smoke billowed into the night sky, obscuring stars. The other survivors huddled together near the bow, stealing glances at him.
Only Naomi approached.
"They'll come around," she said, joining him at the railing. "You saved their lives."
Hugo nodded but didn't speak. Eight survivors. A pathetic number compared to how many they'd lost.
"Where are we headed?" he asked.
"There's a settlement two days northeast. New Greyhaven." Naomi tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "It's where the first evacuees went, established defenses. I know people there."
Hugo turned from the burning city. "Will they take us in?"
"They'll have to. Winter's coming." She paused. "You need rest."
"I'm fine."
"You've been wounded multiple times today. Your body needs recovery, whatever... changes you're experiencing."
Hugo looked down at his torn clothes, dried blood caking the fabric. Oddly, he felt stronger than he had in months.
"I'll rest when we reach land."
The riverboat docked before dawn at a small trading post. The settlement Naomi mentioned lay a day's march northeast along old trade roads. The boat captain wouldn't take them further, he had other evacuees to transport.
Hugo organized their departure with mechanical efficiency. He cataloged supplies, assessed the survivors' conditions, determined their marching order. Naomi watched him work, her expression unreadable.
"I'll take point," Hugo told the group. "Keep tight formation. The undead are attracted to stragglers."
They set out as pale morning light broke over the horizon. Hugo walked thirty paces ahead, scanning the road. Something had changed in his perception. He could sense... spaces. Absences. Places where no life stirred. And when he focused, he felt distant cold spots, the walking dead.
Behind him, the survivors trudged in silence. A middle-aged woman carried a small child. An old man leaned on his son's shoulder. A merchant clutched his ledger like a holy book. And Naomi, watching Hugo with her medic's eyes, noticing things others missed.
By midday, they reached an overturned caravan. Three wagons lay broken on the roadside, goods scattered across trampled grass. Bodies sprawled nearby, fresh kills, no more than hours old.
Hugo raised his hand, signaling the group to stop. He approached the wreckage carefully, sword drawn.
"Bandits," he said, examining the arrow wounds in the dead. "Not undead."
But something else pulled at his attention. Around the corpses, faint wisps hung in the air. Almost invisible, like heat rising from summer stones. Soul fragments, not yet dispersed. Hugo felt a tugging sensation in his chest.
"Stay back," he told the others.
The wisps seemed to pulse as he approached. One drifted toward him, drawn like smoke to an intake vent. His fingers tingled. Hunger stirred in him, not physical, but something deeper. He could take these. Absorb them. Grow stronger.
Hugo clenched his fist and stepped back. "We need to search for supplies."
The survivors spread out cautiously, salvaging what they could. Hugo circled the wagons, maintaining distance from the corpses and their lingering essences.
A sound from the treeline caught his attention, a branch breaking. Hugo spun, sword raised.
"Come out," he called.
Silence. Then a small figure emerged from behind a tree. A boy, no more than thirteen, filthy and wide-eyed. He held a makeshift knife fashioned from broken wagon metal.
"Don't shoot!" the boy called, raising his free hand. "I'm alive!"
Naomi hurried over. "It's alright. We won't hurt you."
The boy approached cautiously, his gaze fixed on Hugo's sword. "Are you soldiers?"
"Survivors," Hugo answered. "From Greyhaven."
The boy's face fell. "Greyhaven fell? My pa said it would hold."
"Your father was with the caravan?" Naomi asked gently.
The boy nodded. "Hiding when the bandits came. They took my sister. Killed everyone else."
"How long ago?" Hugo asked.
"Yesterday. I been hiding since."
Hugo scanned the horizon. Bandits with captives wouldn't move fast. But neither could they, with civilians in tow.
"What's your name?" Naomi asked.
"Leo."
"I'm Naomi. This is Hugo."
Leo stared at Hugo, focusing on his eyes. "What's wrong with him?"
"Nothing," Naomi said quickly. "He's just tired."
"Your eyes look funny," Leo told Hugo. "Like ice around the color part."
Hugo turned away. "We need to keep moving."
"Take me with you," Leo begged, grabbing Naomi's sleeve. "Please. I can't stay here."
"We're headed to New Greyhaven," Naomi explained.
"I can help. I know which plants you can eat. My pa taught me."
Hugo felt the cold spots in the distance growing closer. Undead, drawn by the caravan massacre. They needed to leave.
"Fine," he said. "But keep up and stay quiet."
They continued northeast, now nine instead of eight. Leo fell into step beside Naomi, talking softly. Hugo tuned out their conversation, focusing on the road ahead and the encroaching cold spots in his awareness.
By nightfall, they reached a defensible position, a rocky outcrop overlooking the road. Hugo organized watches while Naomi treated blistered feet and distributed meager rations.
"They're out there," Leo whispered as darkness fell, pointing into the trees. "I can feel them watching."
Hugo nodded. He felt them too, dozens of cold presences circling their position. Undead, drawn by living warmth. But something held them back. None approached closer than fifty paces from where Hugo sat.
"Get some sleep," he told Leo. "I'll watch."
The others settled into uneasy slumber. Hugo remained at the edge of camp, watching darkness. The undead prowled beyond his sight, but he felt their hunger like distant stomach pains. And beneath that, their fear. They sensed what he'd become.
Hours passed. Hugo didn't feel tired. His wounds from earlier had completely healed, leaving only torn clothing as evidence. He flexed his hand, remembering the pull of undead essence flowing into him. The power it brought. The memories. The changes.
A rustling sound drew his attention to a patch of scrub. A wounded fox dragged itself into view, caught in a bandit trap, its hind leg crushed. The animal collapsed twenty paces from Hugo, its life fading rapidly.
Hugo approached slowly. The fox's eyes rolled toward him, pain and fear evident. Its soul clung weakly to its body, a tiny wisp compared to human essence, but visible to Hugo's new perception.
He knelt beside the dying creature. The fox's soul fluttered, drawn to him just as the undead woman's had been. Hugo hesitated, then reached out.
The fox's essence flowed into him. A whisper of wild memory, running through forests, hunting mice, fearing humans. Then it was gone, absorbed completely.
Hugo stood, a strange warmth spreading through him. He thought of the soldiers whose names he couldn't recall. The guilt he should feel for their deaths weighed less now. Just slightly. As if the fox's simple soul had filled a tiny crack in his conscience.
He returned to his watch position. The undead remained beyond his invisible boundary, hungering but fearful.
Tomorrow they would reach New Greyhaven. Tomorrow he would have to decide what he was becoming.
And whether he could stop it.