Hand in the Grave

The chamber reeked of death. A thick, iron tang clung to the cold air, curling into the noses of those present, setting their teeth on edge. The torches flickered, casting jagged shadows on the stone walls. It wasn't just the stench—it was the weight of it, the unholy stillness that clung to the corpse laid out on the slab.

Alberto sat in his high-backed chair, fingers steepled, gaze locked on the body before him. The dead man was young—barely more than a boy, his uniform still stained with the mud of the battlefield. His throat was a ruin of torn flesh, split wide by a blade that had ended him too quickly to leave him suffering. He had died in service to the Bernard Empire, and now he would serve again.

The assembled men—a half-circle of magicians, scholars, and officers—stood in rigid unease. Even the battle-hardened among them, men who had watched thousands die and had sent countless more to the dirt, felt something unnatural coil in their guts.