The village was in a frenzy.

  Or rather, in coordinated panic—the kind only remote villages truly master.

  Vinsart barely held two hundred souls: sharp-eyed farmers, a blacksmith as rough as his anvil, an innkeeper who doubled as a messenger, and a mayor whose mustache governed far better than he did.

  Life here followed the rhythm of seasons, harvests… and rumors.

  So naturally, when a lightning bolt struck the village square, followed by an explosion, a hooded body flying through a wall, and a centaur swearing in every known dialect (and possibly a few invented ones), it lit up the place more than the festival lanterns ever could.

  Shouts rang out.

  Doors flung open.

  Some villagers came armed with pitchforks.

  Others with saucepans.

  The brave ran to the central plaza.

  The rest peeked from behind shutters and curtains.

  — “It’s the end of the world!”

  — “No, Albert, it’s the end of the street—you’re drunk again!”

  — “I saw a monster jump into a house!”

  — “I saw vines dancing on their own!”

  — “I saw the innkeeper smile. That’s suspicious too!”

  In the midst of this chaos, the mayor finally appeared on his doorstep—mustache bristling like a hedgehog under a thundercloud—flailing his arms in theatrical attempts at control.

  — “Stay calm! No panic! Especially not organized panic!”

  No one listened.

  Even his mustache looked overwhelmed.

  Meanwhile, Tharion was calmly cleaning his weapon in the courtyard.

  Garlan stared at his own fingers in disbelief.

  And Marenna…

  Marenna was already looking for a shovel.

  There was a dead man in her house.

  And beyond the emotional trauma—

  well, it was just plain messy.

  In every sense of the word.

  She returned with an old sheet, a rusty shovel, and a look that left no room for debate.

  — “We’re burying him. It’s the least we can do.”

  Tharion nodded silently.

  Garlan swallowed audibly, not exactly thrilled to stare back into the corpse’s glassy eyes.

  The impromptu funeral procession made its way to the cemetery.

  They dug in silence, beneath the shade of twisted old stones, flanked by two trees warped by time.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Garlan stabbed the shovel into the soil clumsily, his movements sharp and too aggressive.

  Marenna, by contrast, was calm—gentle, even—handling the body with a strange tenderness, as if she were listening to something only she could hear.

  Tharion stood apart, eyes scanning the horizon…

  or something beyond it.

  When the grave was ready, they lowered the body, wrapped in the old sheet, into the earth.

  Marenna lingered at the edge of the pit, crouched, her eyes on the man’s quiet face.

  She whispered nothing.

  No prayer.

  No chant.

  She just closed her eyes—briefly—

  and placed a hand over his cold chest.

  A warm breeze drifted across the grave.

  Invisible.

  But real.

  As if she had sent the soul one last breath.

  One final peace.

  Beside her, Garlan cleared his throat, then stood with sudden purpose.

  He looked around… found two branches, crossed them, tied them with ivy, and planted the crooked cross at the grave’s head.

  It leaned heavily to the side.

  — “It’s… symbolic,” he muttered. “Looks classy, right? I mean… kind of?”

  Tharion looked at him and gave a slow nod.

  — “It’ll do.”

  But as they began to shovel earth back over the body…

  something shifted.

  A chill spread across the ground.

  An invisible breath—cold as frost.

  Marenna jerked back, eyes fixed on the corpse’s chest.

  — “Is it… moving?!”

  The sheet quivered.

  Then tore—slowly.

  A groan rose.

  Low. Inhuman.

  Garlan jumped back.

  — “That’s… that’s not normal!“

  Tharion drew his weapon.

  — “Back away!”

  The earth trembled beneath their feet.

  The dagger still embedded in the corpse’s chest was vibrating.

  Faintly.

  But undeniably.

  Marenna’s face turned pale.

  — “The dagger… it’s enchanted. Necrotic magic.”

  She stepped back.

  — “If it touches the earth, it can—”

  Too late.

  The corpse lunged from the grave with supernatural speed—arms outstretched, fingers curled into claws.

  Its skin was ashen gray.

  Eyes glowing with a sick, soulless light.

  Mouth filled with too many teeth—blackened with rot.

  — “GHOUL!” Garlan shouted.

  The creature snarled.

  But as it rose—rattling with every breath—it locked eyes with Marenna.

  And froze.

  Something… trembled inside it.

  For a moment, within that lifeless gaze, a spark.

  A shadow of memory.

  The warmth of Marenna’s hands on its chest.

  The green glow of healing magic.

  The monster growled—weakly.

  Marenna felt it.

  A tear. A fracture.

  Something trying to surface—

  dragged down by a thousand invisible chains.

  She reached out slowly.

  — “Wait…”

  The ghoul shuddered.

  Trembled.

  Then, through torn breath,

  a human voice slipped out:

  — “I’m… sorry…”

  And then it was gone.

  The horror returned.

  It shrieked—and lunged.

  Tharion struck.

  The creature dodged.

  Garlan fired a blast of wind.

  The ghoul slipped aside, fast as lightning.

  Marenna stepped back, hands still raised.

  — “He’s still in there. I can feel it—just beneath… a trace. An emotion. Something!”

  — “Marenna, MOVE!” Tharion barked.

  Garlan, frozen in place, raised both hands.

  A sphere formed—

  not of fire.

  Not of wind.

  Not of lightning.

  Something simpler.

  More primal.

  A ball of raw mana—

  dense and pure.

  He threw it.

  The impact was sharp.

  Clean.

  Brutal.

  When the smoke cleared—

  only two charred feet remained, ankles still smoking, fused into the earth.

  The rest…

  was fertilizer for the neighbor’s field.

  Silence fell.

  Thick. Heavy.

  Tharion sheathed his blade.

  Garlan still stared at the ashes, shaking.

  Marenna, eyes shining with tears, looked at them both.

  — “We need answers. That dagger… that spell… whatever he became.”

  Garlan nodded.

  — “And Carea. He ran.

  But I’m sure he wants us to follow.

  He said it, didn’t he? ‘We’ll meet again.’”

  Tharion looked at them gravely.

  Then toward the horizon, past the trees.

  — “Then let’s go find him.

  Not to kill him.

  Not yet.

  But to understand.”