Story 1058: The Wight General

The battlefield had been silent for centuries, but the dead never stopped marching.

Deep in the frostbitten valleys of Wraithmoor Ridge, where no birds sang and no sun ever lingered, the ruins of a forgotten war slumbered beneath stone and snow. They called it the Crimson Fold, where one general’s ambition bled reality dry and left only rot in its wake.

That general was Vakar Rhend, commander of the Hollow Host.

Once mortal. Now something much worse.

The survivors had no business being there, but desperation dragged them to cursed soil. They sought safe passage through the mountains—away from the collapsing cities and toward rumors of salvation.

But as they camped near shattered war banners and rusting blades, an unnatural cold fell. Fire refused to catch. Shadows moved without sources. Then came the drumming—slow and thunderous, like bones on metal.

Ezra, the group's watchman, saw the first of them.